Snowflake

by Heide Goody

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Acknowledgements

  Snowflake

  Heide Goody & Iain Grant

  Pigeon Park Press

  ‘Snowflake’ Copyright © Heide Goody and Iain Grant 2018

  The moral right of the authors has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except for personal use, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9957497-6-4

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9957497-5-7

  Published by Pigeon Park Press

  Cover art by Milan Jovanovic

  www.pigeonparkpress.com

  info@pigeonparkpress.com

  Chapter 1

  There’s a lot of different ways to get dumped.

  I’ve been dumped in person, like when Leo Bickers in year five told me he preferred Yu-Gi-Oh cards to kissing girls. I’ve been dumped by text, too many times: ‘It’s not you it’s me’, ‘Get a grip and grow up’, ‘I forgot to tell you I’m married, soz’. (You know, the usual.) And I’ve been dumped by letter. Gareth, who I thought was going to be my Mr Perfect, wrote me the sweetest letter. I’ve still got it somewhere.

  But I reckon very few people have been dumped by letter, by their parents.

  And it had started out as such a lovely day.

  Coming home after a trip, there’s nothing like it, is there? I’d been travelling since the transfer bus picked us up outside the Akrogiali Resort at five in the morning (that’s five in the morning Greek time) and my heart lifted when the taxi finally pulled up at home. The streets of suburban England are dark compared to the wide streets and whitewashed buildings of Crete, but I’d really missed the trees. Funny that. You don’t realise how many trees there are in Britain, even in the cities, until you go and visit one of the browner bits of the world. Trees lined the streets of home like a guard of honour to greet me.

  It takes a fortnight away to make you really appreciate what matters in life: the trees, my own bed, home-cooked food, and someone to pay the taxi for me. I know I should have kept some money back, but I got caught up in the holiday mood. I just had to give the lads at the Ikarus Bar a special tip on my last night. I also gave an extra ten euro note to Bemus, the poor little boy who sat outside the Akrogiali every day. And I had to buy some souvenirs. Had to.

  The fine Greek sausage and bottles of raki were in my bag. The pendant I’d bought hung around my neck and Gida the goat sat on my lap in the taxi, just like she did on the plane. Would you believe that a wickerwork goat is just the wrong size to fit inside the overhead locker? Mind you, there was an awful woman sitting next to me on my flight. She complained about me to the cabin crew, saying that Gida was shedding twigs on her skirt and then she said that my bag smelled disgusting. I had to get my sausage out to show her that it was, in fact, a delicacy she was talking about.

  “It’s called loukaniko sapio or something,” I told her. “It was the last one in the shop.”

  “It’s off,” she had the gall to tell me. “Nothing that smells like a roadie’s armpit is fit for human consumption.”

  I explained to her that some of the world’s most sophisticated and sought-after foods are challenging to the immature palate, but halfway through my educational description (I’d read a Buzzfeed article about smelly foods) of how Alaskan stinkheads are prepared by burying salmon heads until they ferment, she ran for the toilets.

  Back home now, the taxi driver fetched my bag out of the boot. His expression as he caught a whiff of the sausage reminded me of the woman on the plane. I kept my mouth shut this time and pretended I couldn’t smell anything.

  “I’ll pop my bag inside and pay you in just a minute,” I said to him. He sat back down in the driver’s seat.

  I put my key in the lock but it wouldn’t fit. This happens sometimes, particularly since that time I used my key to open a tin of tuna (it was an emergency; the stray cat in the garden looked really hungry). No worries, I’d use the spare key. There’s a stone in the front garden that’s a different colour to all the rest.

  I lifted the stone and groped underneath. No key? There was something in its place though, an envelope.

  Lori

  It was addressed to me. Well I love post as much as the next person, but I needed to get inside, so I thumped the door as I took out the letter and read it.

  Lori,

  You know how we always talked about down-sizing and moving off grid once you and Adam were old enough? Well, we’ve gone and done it. You’ll notice that the locks have been changed. We promised Mrs Llewellyn we’d do that when we moved out.

  I mouthed those words again, testing their meaning. I tried them out loud. “Moved out?” I stared up at the door. Blue gloss paint with scratches around the lock. It looked the same. I stepped back. The whole house looked the same. I thumped the door again and read on.

  We’ve thought long and hard about this, and done some real soul-searching, and decided that now was the right time both for us and for you.

  I’m sure this has come as a bit of a surprise but it’s an exciting surprise, isn’t it?

  We’ve hardly been able to contain ourselves. This is such an opportunity, as much for you as it is for us. We didn’t want to tell you about it at the time because you might have got cold feet (do you remember that time when you refused to go on stage at the ballet recital?). We didn’t want you to worry and we didn’t want you causing a scene by trying to change our minds.

  Look at this as your big chance. We spoke to Adam. As you know, he’s away on his lecture tour of the States. He’s said you can stay at his flat on Silver Street for a few days while you look for your own place. We’ve had all your things sent over there. Don’t worry. We’ve not binned anything. The combination to the key safe is Nanna Shap’s birthday.

  We have provided a little something extra for you though. We had a word with Pat and Dom. They said that the job at the museum really worked out for Melissa —

  “Cookie,” I said out loud, shaking my head.

  “Pardon?” said a man passing by on the pavement.

  “I was just saying, ‘Cookie’. No one calls her Melissa. Not even her parents.”

  “She’s not in,” said the man.

  “Cookie?”

  “Mrs Llewellyn,” said the man, pointing at the house.

  He was a handsome if intense looking fellow not much older than me. Having said that, he was wearing corduroy trousers and a tweedy looking jacket so it was sort of like he was an elderly-gent-in-training.

  I
carried on reading.

  — really worked out for Melissa and the application forms are all on-line so we filled one out for you. We couldn’t remember if you got a D or an E at GCSE Maths, so we played it safe and put you down as a C. Your interview is at 5 pm on the seventeenth. That is the day you get back, isn’t it? The interview is with a Mr Rex McCloud at the big museum and gallery. Wear something nice!

  Knock ‘em dead, sunbeam

  Mom and Dad xxx

  There was no address on the letter – not at the top, not at the bottom, not on the back of the envelope. They’d left me and not told me where they’d gone.

  “This is terrible,” I said.

  “Can I help?” said the man. He was still standing there on the pavement.

  “I’m looking for my parents,” I said.

  “They don’t live there,” he pointed out.

  “I know,” I said, shaking the letter at him. “I can read.”

  He gave me a firm stare. Yes, a very intense looking fellow. It was probably the eyebrows that did it. He had dark hair: a thick comma of it hung over his right eye, nearly down to his eyebrow. Those eyebrows were so thick and dark, I couldn’t decide if they were brooding and masculine eyebrows or bushy, don’t-trust-me-I’m-a-werewolf eyebrows. Fifty percent James Bond, fifty percent wolfman: secret agent wolfman, in corduroy.

  “Ah,” he said, suddenly understanding. “You mean the previous occupants. The Belkins.”

  I didn’t like the idea of myself or my parents being referred to as previous occupants. I was still grieving.

  “You know my parents?”

  “No. I just know they cancelled their papers,” he said, which was an odd thing to say. “Have you tried phoning them?”

  “Of course, I’ve tried. Hang on.” I pulled out my phone and dialled my mom’s mobile number. It made a funny noise. I looked at the screen.

  “What does number unobtainable mean?” I said.

  “Apart from meaning the number can’t be obtained?” he asked. “It might just mean they’re somewhere without a signal.”

  “Oh, God. They’ve moved to Africa!”

  “Or, for example, Wales,” he offered. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ll get through eventually.”

  Shaking my head, I turned away and got back into the taxi. My mind was reeling. It was unthinkable that my parents would abandon me. How could they do this after twenty-five years of caring for me?

  “Change of plan,” I said to the driver. “I need you to take me to my parents please.”

  I settled back. He seemed to take a long time to get going. I don’t know much about driving, but isn’t it just check your mirrors and go?

  “Where’s that then?” he said.

  “Sorry?”

  “Where do they live?” he asked.

  “I don’t know where they live, that’s why I need you to take me,” I said. “You did The Knowledge, right?”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” he said. “I need an address.”

  I spoke to him soothingly. I could see that he lacked confidence in his abilities. “What’s your name?”

  “Jed.”

  “I think you can do it, Jed. Taxi drivers must get requests like this all the time. You’re renowned for getting people to the right place. Concentrate, will you? Now my mom, she’s about my height, brown hair in a pony tail. She colours it but you can’t tell. She likes decoupage, watches Midsomer Murders, and does yoga on Wednesdays and Fridays. My dad’s a bit taller, but short for a man. He’s going thin on top. He wears a lot of outdoorsy stuff, North Face and that sort of thing, but he spends more time reading about the great outdoors than –”

  “I can’t find your parents without an address. I really can’t,” said Jed.

  I was disappointed in his attitude, but he wasn’t budging.

  “Well we need to go somewhere,” I said. The man wasn’t going to get paid without some parental intervention. I’d maxed out my overdraft in Crete and the cash machines weren’t paying out to Ms Belkin right now. “Let’s go to the paper shop and ask Mr Patel where they are.”

  “What’s the address?” asked Jed.

  “Oh, it’s just down there, you can see it. Drive slowly though, I need time to think.”

  Chapter 2

  My parents moved house without telling me. Kicked out of my own home at the tender age of twenty-five. I sat back in the taxi and wondered what all this meant. I mean, it’s not normal, is it?

  That meant they’d been in my room and touched all my things! Isn’t there a human right that says they’re not allowed to do that? I read this article once that said a landlord has to give you twenty-four hours notice before entering your property. I had rights, didn’t I?

  I’d never lived anywhere else, and I had no idea what to do next. I thought about my room. What if the new occupant decided to redecorate? She was sure to get rid of the freehand unicorn border that I added. Dad said they looked like pole dancing horses. I was more shocked that he knew what pole dancing was than by his criticism of my art. Dad doesn’t always understand my art. He calls it ‘doodling’. I don’t think he’s being deliberately offensive.

  My fingers went to the pendant I’d bought in Crete that hung around my neck. It was a heavy red stone – some sort of onyx I think – with a white cameo carving on the top of a man kneeling in adoration before a woman on a pedestal. I hadn’t really considered the image properly before; I had just liked the shape and colour of the whole thing and the guy selling it really wanted me to have it. I suppose the woman in the cameo looked a little like me, although her figure would probably be described as statuesque (mine was, at best, thin and shapeless) and her hair fell in bouncing tresses (unlike my wild frizz). Comparing myself to some ancient Greek figure and finding I came up short did little to lift my mood.

  I took out my notebook and sketched a little. I drew Florrie, my cartoon alter ego (definitely a thin and shapeless figure with wild frizzy hair) standing in an empty void, homeless and all alone. I added a black cloud above her head. I sketched out another panel of two wicked, sharp-toothed parents, carrying suitcases stuffed with cash and walking towards a waiting jumbo jet.

  Jed gave a small cough. We were parked outside the corner shop.

  I sighed and got out. “Let me talk to Mr Patel, I’ll be right back.”

  “It’s still on the meter,” he said.

  I always feel like a dwarf in Mr Patel’s shop. He has this counter that’s so high up, you get a crick in your neck when you talk to him. I’m guessing someone once told him that people buy more of the things that are at eye level, so he’s made sure that all the sweets, lottery cards and weird natural highs are right in your face.

  “I need your help,” I said to him.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “I’m Lori Belkin, Mr Patel. I need to know where you’re delivering the papers for my parents now.” I gave him my best smile.

  He looked down at me from his eyrie. “I am not Mr Patel,” he said and tapped a lapel badge that said ‘Hi, I’m Norman’ above, in a smaller font, ‘Small business owners – we do it on your doorstep.’

  “Where’s Mr Patel?” I asked.

  “He went back to Wolverhampton, I think.”

  “I’ve only been away two weeks and everything changes.”

  “The Patels sold this place seven years ago.”

  Oh. Can I help it if I don’t notice things that happen way above my head?

  “Right,” I said. “Well, where are my parents?”

  “It is not a simple matter for me to share information about my customers,” he said. “Data Protection Act. Even if the law of the land permitted it, which it does not, I would hesitate, because I have seen so many problems arise from idle tittle-tattle.”

  “No, it’s not idle tittle-tattle, they’re my parents,” I said.

  “It matters not, Miss Belkin. Tittle-tattle ruins lives. Take for example a customer of mine who enjoys the world of model building. I shall not speak his nam
e, but you will know him immediately when I tell you that he walks with such silent purpose that you might imagine he is building a terminator in his lounge. Now, if I were to tell you that as well as The Modeller magazine, he also has on order the men’s magazine Razzle, you might not be shocked. But those other fellows from the model club, perhaps they would be? Friendships ruined and reputations in tatters.”

  “Yes, I’m not planning on ruining any friendships or whatever. I just need an address.”

  “Ah,” he said, with the sound of a sage old Yoda figure about to dispense some wisdom, “but from little seeds mighty oaks do grow. I give you an address, it’s only the thin end of the wedge. Say I was to tell you that a local lady – obviously, I can mention no names, but you’ll know her hanging baskets – say I was to mention that her newspaper order has recently been amended.” Norman tapped the side of his nose. “She’s always had the BBC Good Food magazine, as you probably know, but last month, she added Fine Woodworking and Garden News. You don’t need me to tell you what that means! Even the dullest of wits might infer that you-know-who has moved in with her. After that business he had with the fraud squad, I thought we’d seen the last of him.”

  I was keen to bring him back round to the subject of my parents. “The Evening Mail is all that my parents have delivered,” I said, “so can you tell me where you’re delivering it now?”

  “Client confidentiality is the cornerstone of my profession. I am like a priest, a guardian of secrets and personal privacy.”

  I was deflated. “You can’t help me find them?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “But there’s been a mix up and I need to find them urgently.”

  “My sympathies.” Norman shook his head in sorrow. “You could always put a card in the window. Though my confidence is a sacred bond, others might be willing to help you.”

  I looked across at the window where postcards were stuck in uneven rows. I always enjoyed reading them. I knew without looking that there was one trying to sell a boy’s bike for seventy pounds (it had been there for months as nobody was ever going to pay that much), one that offered a greenhouse free to anyone who was brave enough to dismantle it and one that offered reiki massage in the comfort of your own home. I had no idea what a reiki was or why it might want massaging.